


How Blind You Can Be, When You Don’t See

by locketofyourhair



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22558609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locketofyourhair/pseuds/locketofyourhair
Summary: Somewhere along the way, humans developed soulmates. Angels and demons don't have soulmates, of course, unless they've gone a bit...native.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 30
Kudos: 255
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	How Blind You Can Be, When You Don’t See

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> Art is by the fantastic [Qualityvanilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qualityvanilla/pseuds/qualityvanilla). A master post of their work can be found [here](https://qualityvanillaabsolute.tumblr.com/post/190647812893/this-is-my-humble-contribution-to-the-good-omens).
> 
> Title is from Nightwish's "Bye Bye Beautiful." Beta and hand holding by the wondrous intheapplefumes.
> 
> Thank you to the GOBB mods for all their hard work and thank you to the AceOmens Discord server for letting me whine while I was stuck.

In the Beginning, humans were created in the divine image, much like angelstock had been, except they were born markless. Rather than the gold leaf that adorned an angel’s forehead or cheeks, their shoulders or perhaps a line of stars down their back that shimmered like wet scales, humans had only the occasional group of freckles on sunkissed skin, a variation of their pigmentation. It didn’t hold significance the way an angel’s markings could, how they could tell you the history and life of an angel, their greater purpose in the Great Plan. 

Except, after the Flood, that changed. Aziraphale had lived among humans for nearly a millennium, and he was just as baffled as they by the sudden marks that formed on the skin of a newborn child, a small thing along the ribcage. They came in pairs, occasionally groups of three, and it was all quite strange. 

Home Office said it was a design update, a nudge towards a human’s true mate, but not as binding as to force any one human to fall in love with another. Most would be deliriously happy to pair with their match, though exceptions always did crop up. Blips in the code, as it were. 

It was not his place to question, though it gave him a reason to wear thicker robes as the styles changed. He - as an angel - only had the gold-leaf marks on his celestial form. He had no intended mate, as angels were not meant to fall in love or anything so frivolous. 

It did make Roman baths an issue, but honestly, sitting on your bare rump and listening to the human you were trying to sway back to goodness brag about how many sexual conquests he’d achieved by changing the fire-red mark on his ribs with a bit of paint and a judicious supply of wine? They were hardly worth the bother.

* * *

In the third century, when the Empire was teetering on the edge, Crowley had to work with Zazel to make sure things were as chaotic as possible. Zazel wasn’t nearly as fun as some of the other demons, but she also wasn’t Ligur or Hastur. She didn’t turn her nose up at infiltrating parties as courtesans and tempting with a light touch. 

Except when she was dressed in gauzy robes, he noticed her blank side. His own was marked, and it had been since humans began to form them, with a tree that seemed to pulse with his corporation’s heartbeat. She was staring at his side in turn, nose wrinkled.

“I thought only humans,” she murmured, and her fingers brushed against it, sending sparks along his spine. “Is it because you’ve been here too long? I’m sure someone could have you reassigned.” She rubbed her fingers along the fabric of her clothing, as if she needed to forget the texture.

Crowley licked his lips. “It’s not so bad,” he said, false bravado and an easy smile. He hadn’t thought to ask Aziraphale if he had formed a mark. He was the only other agent that had been stationed on Earth as long as Crowley; he was also the only one Crowley would trust with such knowledge. “Besides, it’s been over a century now. Whatever human it was for is long dead anyway, and it’s not like I can mourn their passing.”

Zazel’s frown deepened. “I don’t want one,” she declared. “I don’t like how it feels.”

Crowley miracled up some henna and a brush, ready to change the subject. He didn’t want to examine what it meant, that he had a mark and others didn’t. “Let me draw something on you, sweetheart. Humans are nosy enough about them. I don’t know what they would do if you were unmarked.”

He drew Cassiopeia along her ribs, and they went arm and arm into their temptation. Zazel didn’t mention his mark again, and she spun her own (terrible) story about the mark that humans accepted.

* * *

It was in the tenth century when he noticed that Crowley had begun to draw one on. They’d both been stationed in a convent: Aziraphale as the abbess and Crowley as the attendant to a noble daughter who had been sent to the nuns to try to adjust her behavior. (Privately, Crowley admitted to Aziraphale that the heiress rarely even needed to be tempted towards sin, and his presence at her side was more convenience than actual work, particularly as the daughter was no dear fan of men.)

Indeed, Aziraphale had come into the washroom one evening and knew the sparrow at the heiress’ ribs as a match to one of the other sisters, the near-sighted ginger who worked wonders in the kitchens. That wasn’t precisely a surprise, but the spreading branches along Crowley’s side were. He barely had made the effort to appear female, small breasts that did nothing to hide his mark, and Aziraphale had a moment of being distracted by the way water clung to Crowley’s dust pink nipples before staring at the mark.

Crowley touched his side, time stopped for this bit of discussion. “I’ve been using ink--miracle it to stay, and humans don’t ask questions.”

Aziraphale didn’t touch the mark, but he could see the way the branches reached out towards Crowley’s heart. “Bit large for one,” he murmured.

“Better than not having one.” Crowley pulled a shift over his head, turning away. “I don’t know about angels, but we demons have a tendency to lose our shirts from time to time.” His throat worked for a moment, as he if had more to say, but he stayed silent.

Aziraphale’s ears burned. His own lack of a mark hadn’t precluded trying human intimacy, but it still made his breath catch, to think of Crowley performing that particular sort of miracle. “Why a tree, then?”

Crowley says nothing for a long moment, tripping over his words so they’re just a series of sounds. “Er, well, ah, that’s a bit personal, angel, don’t you think?”

He puts up his hands, as he hadn’t meant to offend Crowley. Honestly, it hadn’t occurred to him that Crowley would give himself a mark that had an actual meaning. He had assumed, well, that trees were easy to draw on one’s own side. 

“I’m sorry, my dear. I hadn’t realized.” 

Crowley pursed his lips before shrugging. “Easy to draw, is all.”

The statement tasted like a lie, but Crowley was a demon. If he wanted, every statement could feel like a lie until one didn’t know reality from fantasy. His anxiety was probably muddling his powers. It happened to all of them occasionally.

“Reasonable,” Aziraphale agreed easily. He thought of his own unmarked side. “Perhaps I should consider it. I’ve been called cursed, you know.”

Crowley’s expression melted into a fond smile. “They mean well, I think. Seems to them that nothing could be worse in their short lives without the idea of love.” He took off his glasses to clean them. “No matter how many of them get buggered over by it.”

He restarted time.

* * *

The tree grew over time, burning against his skin. He wasn’t sure if it was because it was a mark born of love - a divine emotion in its own right - or because he was in love with an angel. He wasn’t a fool; he had known the truth of his heart from the moment Aziraphale admitted that he’d given the sword away. 

Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself at the time, but he could hardly argue against the evidence. His throat had done a strange twisting when he’d seen the angel, even in the face of horrors like the blessed Flood. He loved Aziraphale even when he was offering to tempt a demon to an aphrodisiac.

He loved Aziraphale when they stood on the hilltop and watched the kingdom of Camelot burn, Arthur dead at his son’s hand and the Knights of the Round Table scattered to the wind. He hated this part of the work the most: when there was nothing to be done but watch humanity destroy itself because free will was a wicked thing. 

“I saw Lancelot’s mark once,” Aziraphale murmured. “A red blossom.” He brushed fingers along his side, over his tunic now that they’ve both forsaken clunky armor.

Crowley sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Anemone, if it matches hers.” He couldn’t help the bitterness in his throat, the knowledge that for all the blessing one was supposed to see in these divine marks, they still weren’t a match for human traditions around marriage. 

“You had no idea?” He hated that Aziraphale sounded unsure. And he hateed himself because he knew that he’d be congratulated for this, that he was still going to benefit from all this chaos. 

The mark burned, as much as the words stung. “Angel, you can’t think anything of my fomenting... I didn’t want this.” His sword was clean, but his hands didn’t feel that way. “I didn’t know he was Arthur’s son.”

Aziraphale sighed, and his hand hovered by Crowley’s shoulder for a moment, as if he meant to pat it, to offer some shallow comfort. “I served at his side and had no idea that he even had a son, Crowley. How would you have known?”

Crowley sighed, putting his hat on. It was still damp, under the fire and screaming. He needed a drink. “I expect there’s nothing else we can do here. Care to find a pub?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, and his smile was so beautiful, cutting through the ash. “I would love that.”

But then his face fell and he produced a small scroll. “Except I’ve already been reassigned.” He shook his head. “I’m to make sure she keeps her vows, until the end.”

Crowley glared at the scroll, at the battlefield, at the sky as if Heaven cares. “I don’t think one more night will make much difference, angel,” he said, not tempting as much as pointing out the obvious. “I saw her after the fire. She’s not going to change her mind.”

Aziraphale sighed, and his smile wasn’t as beatific. Crowley thought he liked this one better, because it reminded him less of heaven and more of shared meals in pubs. “No, I don’t think she is.”

He bumped his shoulder against Aziraphale’s, a small sway that he could pretend was an accident if asked. “And I’ll help you get your wimple right in the morning. Wouldn’t do to meet a former queen looking overly shabby.”

“Wily old serpent,” Aziraphale murmured, but he tucked the scroll back into his sleeve and let Crowley lead him from the battlefield.

* * *

Aziraphale had meant his mark to be a feather, but it looked more like a misshapen leaf. He was not the artist that Crowley was, which was just as well. For as much as Aziraphale enjoyed art, the written word was his true love. It still allowed him to forego the awkward questions when he had a valet to help dress him or the times he would find himself in states of undress.

It wasn’t that he was lecherous, but occasionally indulging in the pleasures of the flesh without being forced to keep his shirt on was lovely. He enjoyed the feeling of a partner’s hands on his skin, and only a small miracle was required to keep the misshapen feather at his ribs from smearing and giving away the game.

After a few centuries, the feather even became more apparent, though he never bothered to add much detail. He could remember the textured bark of Crowley’s, the way the branches seemed to reach up and out, but one needn’t be flash about it. Kit’s mark had been a dark blue line, winding like a river, and he’d been so wonderful right until the end. 

Of course, after a few centuries, Aziraphale was beginning to tire of drawing the same feather, and mentioned that to Crowley after a particularly well-wrought bit of avoiding work. That Cromwell fellow made their jobs a touch too easy, as he was off beheading anointed kings (a win for Crowley’s office) while inspiring others to live pious and worshipful lives, even if Aziraphale didn’t precisely approve of how he went about things. Upstairs just wanted that box ticked, and the paperwork wasn’t overtly false.

It left a good bit of time for drinking wine in rented rooms, which was always appreciated.

“Then change it, angel,” Crowley said breezily, motioning with his wine glass. “It’s not like your actual wings or true form. It’s a bit of ink.” He grinned then, quick and dangerous. “Just draw a black circle and say it’s a black spot. You’re tragically linked to Death.”

Aziraphale sent him a withering look. “I don’t think he’d like that very much, and it wouldn’t do to have him being tetchy.”

“No, he doesn’t care,” Crowley declared, miracling up a table to rest his heels on. “I expect he thinks the marks are mortal nonsense that have no effect in the end. Everything ends and all that, even love.”

Aziraphale’s mouth turned down severely. “That’s bleak, my dear.”

Crowley pursed his lips again. “It’s the truth, Angel. S’why they write so many tragedies, I expect. Even if you find your fated person, eventually death will take you from each other.” He took a long drink of wine. “And we’ve both seen enough couples split along the company lines in the afterlife to think they all get reunited in their reward.”

“Still,” Aziraphale murmured. He didn’t like to ponder mortal lives much. It was all so short, even the truly special were lucky to have seventy years to share their gifts with the world. They burned so brilliantly but so quickly, and seventy years hardly seemed like any time at all to find your true match and to enjoy your time together. 

Though, he expected that was the point, and why celestial beings didn’t have matches. 

Crowley sighed and rubbed under his eyes. “Best not to ponder, I think,” he murmured, before changing the subject to a new bit of music he’d heard in Prague.

* * *

He hadn’t expected the riot of jealousy that came from Aziraphale’s friendship with Alexander Pope. The angel loved writers; he always had. And while Pope was unfortunately named and rather too involved in his philosophy, he was a good enough man. 

Crowley sensed he was different when Aziraphale wouldn’t tolerate sniggering after his name. _Poor Alexander has enough to deal with without the comparison, Crowley. He can hardly change his family name._

It almost made him feel guilty, if the continued persecution of Catholics after the humans’ Glorious Revolution was his fault. He’d merely meant to help Annie get married to Henry, make them both happy. Catherine deserved better than trying to make a son over and over again. He’d just meant it to be a little push, and look how the humans ran with it. 

And wasn’t that humans all over. 

Crowley watched Pope and Aziraphale as they drank and discussed the finer points of philosophy and tried not to feel like a third wheel. Of course, then they would turn to sodding literature and Pope was off about his damned hair poem. 

He said nothing. He was not technically invited to this moment between two friends, watching from an appropriately lurk-y corner of the tavern like a right proper demon. Aziraphale probably knew he was here, as he kept glancing over to Crowley’s corner with the slightest wrinkle between his brows. 

Technically, Crowley was here for work. He’d been here for work. He’d suggested that perhaps a local constable could be compensated for his work, at least more than his official wages. By the time the man had left, he had plans to extort everyone under his care. Crowley had merely stayed to drink the frankly terrible ale until he felt marginally less slimy. 

Enter Aziraphale and his writer. 

Aziraphale looked over again, and really, there was nothing else to do. He was not going to keep listening to hair poetry. He stopped time and moved from his corner to bow to the angel and offer a top up on his own drink. 

“I thought your lot had enough of that after that whole Samson mess,” Crowley drawled. He peeked over Pope’s shoulder, looking at the myriad of smudges and spilled ink. Quills were truly a fantastic writing instrument. Good source of sinning. Much better than blackmail.

“Really,” Aziraphale said, and he didn’t look nearly as bothered as he should. “That was your lot and you know it.”

Crowley shrugged, because he didn’t actually know. He wasn’t involved in that bit of the fight, and he didn’t actually like to get bogged down in other demons' assignments. “Still. Rape of the lock. Seems dramatic.”

Aziraphale said nothing. The entire bar was frozen around them.

“I just thought I’d stop over. Say hi.” He looked at Pope, at the frozen expression of pleasure on his face. “Why’s he the new favorite?”

“Ah, he’s got no mark.” Aziraphale took a bit of cheese from his plate, popping it in his mouth. “Humans think he’s cursed, but he doesn’t rightly care. And he’s bloody talented. It’s not just a hair poem, you know.”

Crowley’s own mark seemed to burn for a moment. He didn’t much care to examine why Aziraphale meeting with an unmarked human bothered him, when (rightly) Aziraphale had no mark because he was a damned angel. Crowley shouldn’t be able to feel branches under his skin, shouldn’t know that they would squeeze his heart to dust if given the time.

“Right,” he said, and his voice was suddenly strained, as if he hadn’t had a drink in years rather than moments. “Right.”

The angel narrowed his eyes, and Crowley forced himself to look away. “I should get out of here, before...” And he wiggled his fingers, definitely not putting a soft curse on the chap’s paper, but he rather hoped that Aziraphale thought he meant home offices.

“Probably wise,” Aziraphale murmured, and he sounded concerned. 

Which was Crowley’s hint to resume time and head out of the bar before Aziraphale started wondering if he was all right.

* * *

On the ship back to London, Aziraphale went to reapply his fake mark. He and Crowley had parted at the docks, Crowley technically still on assignment to urge on that Robespierre fellow. (They’d never actually talked, per Crowley, but things seemed to be progressing in a way that kept Hell happy, so Crowley just filed reports and tried to avoid the executions when possible. For a demon, Crowley had little tolerance for wanton bloodshed; it was an endearing quality in his friend.) He had to, as there was precious little privacy on the ship. 

And if his miracles were being watched, he didn’t want to risk one on something as frivolous as his attempt to pass for human, particularly as one can hardly tell his lack of mark under his clothing.

He expected to find a mess of ink covering his side, smudged beyond recognition, and he was partially correct. The ink was ruined, but when he wiped it away, there was something beneath it. 

Aziraphale didn’t mean to miracle a mirror into his hand, but it appeared anyway, the ink completely washed away. A branch reached along his corporation’s ribs, gnarled bark detailed enough that he could tell that there was a knot along the underside. 

He was reminded of Crowley immediately, of the tree that the demon had chosen. He had never had a chance to examine it closely, to feel if it was warmer than the skin around it. Aziraphale could nearly feel the grainy texture of the bark, the thrumming of life in the trunk. 

But then Crowley’s mark was ink and magic, and Aziraphale’s was the real article.

He was almost glad for the pitching of the ship under his feet as he sank to the small cot that Crowley had paid for, a pittance compared to all the help he’d given in France. He knew he was wan, and it would be so easy to explain the change in his complexion on the sea, because how could he explain that his skin bore a soul mark? He was an angel; such things were supposed to be beyond him.

Worse, he suspected that if there _were_ a human out there with a mark that matched his own, they were only just born. And they would die. The idea of such a thing seemed undeniably cruel.

There was another option, but he dismissed the idea before it could even form. It was preposterous. He knew well enough that the virtues were entirely burned away during the Fall, and besides, he cared for Crowley. They were close, acquaintances or perhaps fair-weather friends.

His fingers brushed over the texture of the mark again, before he forced himself to lower his shirt and dress himself again, pushing away any notion that Crowley’s painted mark was a tree and his own was a branch.

* * *

There were moments where Crowley thought perhaps he was just cosmic joke, Her sort of punch dummy rather than a demon. He’d been a star shaper as an angel, someone who’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Gabriel and Michael and helped hang galaxies, until he had thought, “Hey, maybe suffering isn’t great?” And a few other questions. 

Then splash into sulfur where he came out a snake and the originator of sin, technically the one who caused humans to suffer. Great, great. Nothing to feel bad about there, poor bastards.

(Not even to mention all the terrible ways humans have come up with to torment themselves, independent of heavenly trials or demonic sadism. They’d had soulmarks for thousands of years, and yet they decided to go in first on arranged marriages and then blind dates.)

Add in that he was apparently the only celestial being (Fallen or no) to have a soulmark, one that had _grown_ over the years rather just stay a nice polite size, and he was absolutely certain that She liked to kick him while he was down.

Now his angel thought that he wanted holy water to destroy himself, as if he hadn’t been marked with the means to force Hell to kill him for millennia. He’d been lucky when Zazel had seen his mark, because she hadn’t grasped the enormity of what it meant. To her he merely looked like a cursed fool, a little too much time among the humans.

(He’d been luckier still that she’d been destroyed by an overzealous vicar in the Inquisition, some stupid sod who had been flinging blessings and holy water over a miserable human wretch who had been broken by the rack. The human had died of those wounds, but the lay sister that the vicar had brought with him, well. She’d been in the arc of that holy water, and that had been the end of Zazel.

Pity, that. He’d actually liked her, as much as he liked any of his demonic brethren.) 

If he wanted to be destroyed, it would have been as simple as going down to Hell, looking old Beezelbub in the eye, and removing his shirt. They’d have no choice but to have him completely destroyed, because a soulmark meant a soulmate. A soulmate meant a once-in-a-lifetime true love.

Which meant Crowley, a demon, could love, and that was explicitly against the rules of Hell.

Crowley felt like a fool when he went back to his flat, removing his very fine coat and hat, the layers of stuffy Victorian dress that looked wonderful but he would be very glad to discard in the next century. 

He sat on the edge of his bed in just his trousers, looking into the mirror that he’d miracled up, at the tree that grew across his ribs. 

Originally, it had only been a little branch, something that reminded him of an apple tree in winter despite never knowing a real winter then, but now it was more, the left side of his torso covered in bark and reaching branches, long roots curling down along his hip. The branches never flowered, and that was a small blessing, he supposed.

If they flowered or grew leaves, they might also lose those leaves. He didn’t want to know what it meant when a demonic soulmark saw autumn on his skin.

Wasn’t like he could ask anyone, anyway.

“‘Cept you, I suppose,” he growled at the ceiling, at the un-damned Mother who had made him a terrible angel and a worse demon. “What am I supposed to do now, if he doesn’t want--”

The words stuck in his throat, because he couldn’t say it. He had a soulmark that was for an angel, because he couldn’t imagine ever loving anyone half as much as he already loved Aziraphale, and that angel never wanted to see him again, over just a bit of holy water.

Crowley sighed, suddenly in his black night shirt as he turned down the covers of his bed. He sent the mirror away. He’d have a bit of a kip and come back at this problem in the morning, he supposed, maybe find a bottle of rare wine and some nibbles to make Aziraphale see that he didn’t actually want to destroy himself.

He just worried about what would happen, when Hell found out, because was going to be found out eventually. He was stupid over the angel, stupid over the Arrangement, and he knew that eventually the reaching branches of the mark were going to curl up out from under his collar.

And he couldn’t hide everything.

* * *

His entire side burned as Crowley drove through the blacked-out streets of London as if there wasn’t a war on. The books felt heavy in his lap, distractingly so. There was no reason to save the books. Even if one could argue the point that Crowley was being kind, to save Aziraphale the trouble of paperwork _only_ because he knew how Aziraphale worked and he didn’t want to risk another angel coming and mucking up the very careful balance they’d created.

Or as careful a balance as one could form when you both were doing your very best not to work at all, just sending the paperwork off to their home offices. Or course, they hadn’t really spoken since their argument, but it didn’t change matters that neither of them was working very hard at tempting or blessing the masses.

It didn’t change the fact that Aziraphale could smell Crowley’s sinfully expensive cologne, and he knew without question that the mark across his skin was growing.

The branch had become attached to a tree after their fight at St James’ Park, and he knew the shape of it. It had been centuries since he’d seen it, but he would hardly forget Crowley’s painted mark.

When he closed his eyes, he could picture most of Crowley, the freckled skin of his chosen corporation to his smile, the way he more than occasionally tripped over words that contained more than one “s.” That his mark would start to resemble Crowley’s chosen mark was a shameful, nearly sinful, thing, but it was hardly surprising.

He was in love with Crowley, in a way that was both divine and entirely human, and there was no recourse for it. That he hadn’t Fallen for it was Her divine plan, and she probably found it rather funny, an angel hopelessly in love with a demon. 

Except that Crowley didn’t have to save the books. 

“Do you still draw your mark on?” Aziraphale asked, when Crowley had parked in front of the shop. The windows were boarded over, but it was elsewise miraculously unharmed. “Even with Nazis running about.”

Crowley’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, and Aziraphale watched him swallow once, twice. “Not lately, no. Humans aren’t as nosey anymore.” He smiled, and it was sad enough to make Aziraphale want to reach out, to cover Crowley’s hand with his. “I expect the last war fixed that for them.”

The car seemed to go still around them, both of them lost in one of the worst things they’d seen in millenia. Aziraphale hadn’t actually been on orders to serve as a doctor in the infirmaries, to try and heal infected rat bites and ease the suffering of those who had been lucky enough to come back from the trenches. He had no idea what Hell’s plans had been for that war. The tic in Crowley’s jaw told him that he didn’t want to know.

“I suppose it’s hard to believe in Fate after that,” Aziraphale whispered. “So many were lost.”

Crowley sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Romance was for a time before mustard gas.”

Aziraphale licked his lips, and he thought he saw Crowley move his head in the near darkness, as if he was following the movement. “I don’t think they’re romantic, Crowley. They’ve caused so much suffering over the years.”

“Humans can make suffering out of anything, angel,” Crowley said softly. He reached over carefully, to rest his hand beside Aziraphale’s on the bag of books. “But Love has always been a destructive power. Remember when She loved them so much She drowned the lot?”

Aziraphale wanted to ask if Crowley’s tree was really only ink and miracles or if it was something else, something indelible that didn’t shift no matter what adjustments he made to his body. When Crowley stood at Golgotha and appeared as a woman, did he have the tree at his side then?

But he was a coward, so he murmured his thanks to Crowley and got out of the Bentley.

* * *

“You go too fast for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley’s mark pulsed against his skin. He’d never been able to pinpoint when it grew before, but he could feel it now. He knew if he opened his shirt, he’d see a new branch beginning to creep his breast.

He watched Aziraphale leave, watched him walk out into the red lighting of Soho as if nothing had changed between them, as if there wasn’t a tartan thermos in Crowley’s hands. His fingers curled around it, around the warmth of Aziraphale’s touch that still lingered. His entire body burned, as if he had touched the water already. 

Crowley couldn’t breathe, which was admittedly strange as he didn’t _need_ to breathe, but it felt rather like his chest was crushing in on itself. He kept replaying the moment, the way that the shadows cast by neon light couldn’t hide the anguish on Aziraphale’s face.

He wished he’d risked the moment to reach across and touch Aziraphale’s hand, to curl their fingers together. 

“Angel,” he murmured to the empty car, before he set the thermos very carefully in the passenger seat. Aziraphale was the only one who ever sat there, and it seemed wrong to put something so deadly in his spot. 

Crowley stared at the thermos, out into the seedy streets, and waited for his chest to stop burning, willing his mark to stay hidden. He had the means to keep himself safe now. It wouldn’t do for branches to reach across his neck and strangle him.

* * *

It was perhaps a touch unprofessional to let the garden get to such a state that Crowley felt like she had to step in, but Aziraphale could admit to himself that sitting at a picnic and watching Warlock play with his poppets so Crowley could whip the plants back into shape was worth it. He did so love watching Crowley hissing at the roses in her nanny outfit, sensible heels left off so she wouldn’t sink into the grass. 

Aziraphale perhaps also liked watching Crowley’s penchant for stockings with a seam along the calf, but such things were best not discussed, particularly with the Antichrist.

“Nanny says you’re a bloody awful gardener,” Warlock declared as he tucked one of the dolls into its carrier. Mr. Dowling didn’t like that Warlock played with dolls at all, and it always amused Aziraphale how many accessories the child seemed to have accumulated for such forbidden toys. “And if you aren’t more careful, you’ll get sacked.”

Aziraphale laughed and sipped his imaginary tea. “She wouldn’t let such a thing happen, Master Warlock. She’s a tender soul under all that nastiness, you know.”

Warlock scoffed. “Duh,” he said. He poured himself a generous helping of tea then, and he pursed his lips as he always did when he wanted to ask a question that he knew an adult didn’t want to answer. Crowley had noticed it early in their acquaintance with the boy, and it was the face they’d both come to dread. 

_If we want any influence at all, we need to answer his questions, with the truth_ , Crowley’d spit out, as he lounged on Aziraphale’s sofa in the gardener’s quarters, drinking the terrible wine that was always available for servants. _’S the only way we get him to listen to us, because Satan knows his parents are bollocks at that._

“Brother Francis, do you and Nanny match?” Warlock’s blue eyes were trained on the doll in his hands, as if he was embarrassed, though Aziraphale was rather sure he’d never seen Warlock look away from anything, not even his parents’ rows. 

Aziraphale dithered for a moment, because he and Crowley were both aware of the gossip among the staff; people always assumed the worst when a man and woman were friends. At the same time, Warlock had more occasions than most to see them be friendly. 

He was rather sure Crowley had forgotten himself once or twice before the child and called him “angel” rather than Francis. 

Warlock’s eyes grew flinty, bracing for the lie, and Aziraphale sighed, taking off his well-worn hat. “It’s a complicated subject between us, young Warlock,” he said, because they’d agreed to be honest with the Antichrist. “Matching marks is only the start, you know. A foundation to set something on.”

Warlock wrinkled his nose, and Aziraphale remembered that their charge was - after all - only eight. Some metaphors were quite realistically beyond him. “My dad and mom don’t match. Is that why they fight so much?”

Aziraphale looked towards Crowley again, where she’d culled a few of the roses and was laying them on their picnic blanket. Later they would take them in for Mrs. Dowling and declare that Warlock picked them for his mother. It would be a lie, of course, and that was why Crowley did it, but Aziraphale privately worried that it was a touch too kind, that Crowley introducing such kindness into Warlock might somehow tip the scales in a way that neither of them had considered. 

“Soulmarks are God’s way of tormenting us, Warlock,” Crowley said, grimacing. “We’d all have been much better off without them. What benevolent God gives you free will, then decides to tell you who they think you should marry?”

“One that should be overthrown, Nanny,” Warlock recited, the way some children would parrot their parents’ political opinions. 

Aziraphale frowned, and he should have said something in regards to how it was all part of the Great Plan. Surely there was an ineffable reason for the marks. 

A mark that matched Crowley’s false one, as if he’d willed it into being, and wasn’t _that_ a terrifying thought. It was too much to be in love with Crowley and then to manifest it in such a human way. 

“No argument, Francis?” Crowley’s eyebrows rose high above her glasses, and the way she asked made Aziraphale pause, as if she expected him to admit the truth. 

But she couldn’t possibly ever know. It would ruin their friendship. 

“I’m far too old to be starry-eyed about romance, my dear,” he replied, and then he offered his teacup to Warlock for more imaginary tea. “Far too old and well aware that we may have only a limited time to enjoy this world.”

His skin tingled at a demonic miracle, and Aziraphale was quite sure that it was no longer any sort of imaginary tea in Crowley's plastic cup.

* * *

His entire body ached as he pulled the Bentley up to the pub. His hair even hurt, and the humans had agreed that his hair was dead. It wasn’t supposed to feel things, to be affected by that black hole that took the spot in his life where he’d normally find Aziraphale. He’d been gone less than an hour - even if he’d been murdered just after calling Crowley - and already it felt like millennia. It felt like he was living through the entirety of the 14th century through every second, every breath he forced himself to take. 

Armageddon had been fast approaching, and just like that, it was taking too bloody long.

Crowley pressed a hand against his side, against the mark. He’d been stabbed once in his long lifetime, when he was playing at soldier. The blade hadn’t killed him immediately, but he’d had to wait to heal himself, too many humans about. The steady pain from blood loss, the throb of torn flesh, and the hissing pain of being stabbed through by one of Arthur’s bloody blessed blades because of course the Knights of the Round Table had blessed blades. 

That and walking across consecrated ground to save Aziraphale had been the worst physical pain he could remember, beyond the Fall itself, and he’d gladly experience all three in concert if it meant Aziraphale would huff at him again and declare them not-friends. 

Not-friends can be overcome; completely destroyed was just an end. 

He slouched into the pub like he was some Yeatsian beast, and Aziraphale would never be able to roll his eyes and make disparaging comments about how Yeats was a hack compared to Gregory. Crowley hadn’t been around for that literary scene, so he’d just make agreeable noises until a chance came to change the subject. 

If he was slightly jealous of the friends that Aziraphale had made while he slept, that was no bother. They were only humans, and he and Aziraphale had until Armageddon. 

Of course, now it was here, and his angel was gone.

Crowley called for a bottle and slumped into a miraculously empty chair. 

It was masochism to pull his shirt up and wait to watch his mark fade, but he was nothing if not consistent. Besides, Apocalypse on. Not like he had much else to do but sit and wait for some damned Cherub to come and find him, deciding slaying the Serpent of Eden would be their trophy moment. 

The mark felt like it was burning into his side again, like someone had painted the whole damned thing with diluted Holy Water. Eventually, he’d be able to see the bones of his ribs without skin in the way, but it would take a while, long enough that he could really and truly think about how miserable he was in this lonely world.

Of course the mark didn’t fade, but when had his life ever gone as he suspected?

* * *

When they stepped onto the bus to Tadfield, Aziraphale found himself unable to help himself. He sat beside Crowley on the bus seat and drew Crowley’s hand into his lap, cradling it between his own. Neither of them commented. Twenty minutes outside of Tadfield, and Crowley was leaning heavily against Aziraphale’s side. 

It seemed the easiest thing in the world to gently lift the frames from Crowley’s face so they wouldn’t dig into Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Sleep, dear,” he murmured, because he could only imagine how exhausting the past days must have been for someone used to regular sleep.

“Not until you’re safe,” Crowley murmured, but he made no move to shift away, apparently content to list against Aziraphale.

Aziraphale was glad that he held Crowley’s hand, because he was able to refrain from the far more humiliating desire to keep Crowley close, to draw him against Aziraphale’s chest and press a kiss to flame-red hair. 

“We shall both be safe,” Aziraphale replied, with a conviction that he wasn’t sure was earned. “I am not more important than you.”

Crowley murmured a response, but the rumble of the bus and the beating of Aziraphale’s heart were far too loud to hear over. Rather, they sat in quiet on the bench and Aziraphale pondered the very last prophecy. He’d rather liked this face for the last six thousand years, barring some minor incidents, though it hadn’t been terrible, sharing the body with Madame Tracie. 

And if the knowledge of her feelings for Sergeant Shadwell was any indication, far safer than sharing a corporation with Crowley.... 

By the time they had reached Crowley’s Mayfair flat, Aziraphale was quite sure on what they had to do. Crowley had helpfully slept through most of the planning, which allowed Aziraphale to sub in his comments and arguments so he’d be armed against them when he unveiled the plan to the real Crowley. Also, Crowley looked far more peaceful in sleep than he ever did in waking hours, and Aziraphale did nothing to stem the protective urge flooding through him to give Crowley a chance to look that serene around him when he could see the demon’s lovely eyes. 

They were on _their_ side now, besides, and Aziraphale found himself very pleased to protect things and persons that were his. 

Crowley’s protests had been mostly minor when Aziraphale unveiled the plan. “I could sleep for another week, angel. And Heaven knows you don’t sleep, I expect. Don’t go in for that much sloth.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I don’t think they’ve paid that much attention to me in centuries, my dear, and you could sleep here for a time, just be out before daybreak?” He glanced at his hands, pleased to see that Adam’s declaration that he should be his own person meant that his manicure had been preserved. “Heaven has already made, ah, assumptions about the nature of our friendship.”

His face heated, and he couldn’t look at Crowley. It was too much to admit that Heaven may have had the wrong of it, when he did desperately wish they were correct, when he was looking directly at Crowley. It was not surprising that Crowley couldn’t feel the same about him, the Fallen being what they were. 

Crowley bristled at the suggestion that he might be kind. Imagine him feeling love. Ridiculous. (Aziraphale privately might think Crowley was more than capable, but if Crowley wouldn’t allow himself to acknowledge it, it was the same thing as him being unable to feel it.)

But Crowley said nothing. When Aziraphale chanced a look at his face, his sunglasses were back on and his mouth had pulled into a strange moue. “Heaven likes to think they know everything,” he murmured, finally, into a silence that stretched too far. 

Then Crowley sighed and rubbed his hands over his trousers. “We sure this won’t actually destroy us, changing over bodies?”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, and he couldn’t help the small smile. “If it does destroy us, it would be under our terms rather than theirs.”

That earned him a smile, and Crowley offered his hand. “Then let’s go, Angel.”

Switching bodies with Crowley was an odd sensation. Though his corporation had been newly reformed by Adam, it was a near copy of his old one. He was used to it. He knew its tics and habits. Crowley’s body had the same aged feel of his own, but it was clearly used to, well, the more serpentine nature of its inhabitant. It liked to lean and recline, and he wasn’t quite sure how Crowley managed to walk at all. 

Crowley seemed to have a similar bit of trouble with the nature of Aziraphale’s body, but they’d been friends for millennia. It hardly took an hour to approximate the way the other moved, and less time than that to convince Crowley to go sleep. Aziraphale found one of the G.K. Chesterton novels that Crowley professed not to read, and he was prepared to find a way to be comfortable on Crowley’s very fashionable furniture to read it.

That was harder than walking with Crowley’s hypermobile hip-bones, both because of the nature of Crowley’s spine and because the furniture was quite expensive and lovely to look at. It had not been acquired to be comfortable.

And because there was an odd stiffness along Crowley’s left side that seemed to grow worse when he shifted into certain positions. It pulled along his left side as he moved, when he stood, even as he walked. Carefully, as if Crowley might appear to see what he was doing, he removed Crowley’s blazer and folded it over the back of the sofa. 

He brushed slender fingers over Crowley’s side, and even through the thin material, he could feel the difference in temperature. Crowley’s left side seemed hot to the touch, burning as Aziraphale decided that it wasn’t a violation of privacy to just check. The day had been strange; it was entirely possible that Crowley had leaned against something blessed and scalded his skin. It was something he needed to look at before facing Hell, something he should try to heal. It wouldn’t do to appear before the collected demons as less than entirely fit. 

Except when he pulled up just the edge of Crowley’s shirt, it wasn’t reddened flesh that greeted him. [It was the textured print of Crowley’s mark](https://66.media.tumblr.com/949accfc6df38c4e34ef9e7dab0a90d1/385405d50a4de56c-3e/s500x750/1404be7469ccfefd408682b7663c4363b641e848.png), the same one that he’d seen in Rome. Except that had been a small tree, something that could have been done easily with ink and a steady hand. This was something larger, the trunk as large as the hand that he’d cupped over it. 

Aziraphale’s hand shook as he drew up a hand to lick his thumb, to draw over the mark. The ink didn’t move, not that he suspected it would. His own mark was smaller, but it was nearly the twin to Crowley’s, formed of a branch that grew into a trunk, then roots along his hip. 

He lifted the shirt entirely, to study the mark, to marvel at how much larger it seemed than his own. “Oh, Crowley,” he murmured, before pulling the shirt over his head and beginning to miracle up something to wear beneath the ridiculously posh clothing that Crowley favoured. 

Aziraphale was already willing to walk into Hell for his demon; protecting his darkest secret was easy after that.

* * *

Aziraphale laid his hand over Crowley’s as they drank at the Ritz, and Crowley kept staring at how it looked, Aziraphale’s broader fingers over his own, his manicured nails by Crowley’s painted ones. The chipped nail varnish looked even worse in comparison, but when he considered miracling it smooth and whole, Aziraphale distracted him again by drawing his thumb over Crowley’s. 

The only reason Crowley’s shirt didn’t end up drenched in champagne was because the glass seemed to know better than to fall towards him as he dropped it. Instead it fell over onto the table and ruined the plate that Crowley had ordered. It hardly mattered. He hadn’t planning on eating it, even before Aziraphale’s hand was against his. 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley’s skin prickled at the feel of the miracle he used to right the mess. 

Crowley cautiously turned his hand over, so his palm pressed to Aziraphale’s, and he couldn’t help the small hitch in his breath when Aziraphale responded by curling their fingers together. 

“Angel,” Crowley murmured, and then he found he couldn’t make a sound, just an increasingly distressing progression of “um” and “uh.”

But his angel didn’t seem bothered, carefully licking the back of his spoon before he reached over to help himself to Crowley’s salmon mousse. “Did you know that your mark affects the texture of your skin, darling?” Aziraphale asked casually, as if he was commenting on the food before them. 

Crowley’s skin ran cold, then hot, and then cold again. He’d kept the mark hidden for a millennium. He’d stopped anyone in heaven or hell from knowing that he’d gone just that much human, and he’d never wanted Aziraphale to know. Aziraphale was too clever by half; he’d know in an instant that it was for him, that Crowley was a demon who had fallen in love. 

And he couldn’t stomach the idea of his angel’s pity. 

“The singlet,” Crowley said, when he’d managed to find his words, because he was aware of the extra layers under his skin. It wasn’t that he never wore pants, but more that he didn’t wear anything so old-fashioned. “You saw.”

Aziraphale offered a terribly kind smile, and Crowley wished for all the world that he could justify turning back into a snake and slithering from the Ritz dining room. (He could transform, of course, but there were an awful lot of humans in pointy shoes and others caring serving trays. It seemed too great a risk when he was sure no one would issue him another body.)

“It’s—Aziraphale, it’s really...er,” Crowley stumbled around for an appropriate lie. He didn’t lie to Aziraphale. Everyone else, absolutely, but lying to Aziraphale always felt like a violation of their friendship. He fought not to flex his hand, to tighten their hold on each other’s hands. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, and the way he said his name made Crowley want to melt. He wanted to record it so he could listen to it when he was alone in his flat, careful to keep it clear of the Bentley. 

And then he drew Crowley’s hand between his, into his lap. “Did you think you were the only one?”

Crowley forced himself to stare at his untouched food, at his near-empty champagne flute. If Aziraphale kept looking at him like that, he was going to do something stupid, something that would ruin their relationship. Aziraphale’s eyes were soft, with a knowing smile. “Aziraphale, please,” he whispered, and he didn’t know what he was asking. He trusted Aziraphale to know. 

He was, after all, the smartest being Crowley knew, and he counted the Almighty in that number. 

Aziraphale shifted, his chair miraculously closer to Crowley’s, so their knees touched. “I admit, mine isn’t as large. I’ve really only noticed it after Paris, but I suppose in time--”

Crowley kissed him. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t have Aziraphale looking at him with his eyes so fond and his smile so gentle. The fact that Aziraphale had called him _darling_ and the way Aziraphale held his hand, the softness of his hands. He had to kiss him or risk a scene in the Ritz, eyes stinging with tears that he was too proud to actually shed. 

It was meant to be a gentle kiss, but Crowley honestly wanted nothing more than to be in Aziraphale’s lap, to have his hands searching under Aziraphale’s shirt and waistcoat to see the mark he’d mentioned. He wanted to taste it and to see if Aziraphale went breathless as Crowley drew his teeth over it. 

He wanted Aziraphale to do the same. 

Instead, there were teeth and Aziraphale releasing his hand to slide one hand into Crowley’s hair and cradle the back of his head. The other cupped under Crowley’s jacket, where the mark burned under his clothes, and the sound Crowley made would have been embarrassing if demons were prone to shame. 

Instead, it was only the fact that they were in the Ritz dining room that made him pause, aware that their server would be back in a moment. They weren’t tucked into a corner like they had been before the end of the world; rather they were in the middle of the dining room and humans could be staring. 

And perhaps they were. It was worth it for the way his angel smirked at him, pink-cheeked but clearly amused. “Perhaps we should get this as takeaway, dear,” he said, calm as anything, and Crowley didn’t remember making the server appear at their table with takeaway containers and the bill, but suddenly there they were and he was not going to question it. 

“I thought perhaps I could should show you mine, as I have seen yours,” Aziraphale offered, as if it were nothing, and Crowley stumbled as he stood because it was one thing to want and desire and _imagine_ what it would be like to touch Aziraphale. 

“Er, yea--yes, that’s--” And he already loved the Angel, was marked for him, but he still felt bowled over by the next few seconds: Aziraphale putting enough miracled money onto the table to cover their costs and a generous tip; the containers of food appearing in a satchel around the crook of Aziraphale’s elbow; and then their blurring through space to end up at the door of Crowley’s flat. 

And then there was Aziraphale pressing him to that door for another kiss, one with teeth and tongue and the promise of more as soon as Crowley could get the door open, if Crowley could get the door open at all. His hands were very busy holding onto Aziraphale as if he’d vanish, as if Crowley couldn’t have a hold of him. One hand threaded into Aziraphale’s impossibly soft hair while the other wrapped tight around one of his lapels. 

The flat had a very fancy thumbprint lock with a master key for emergencies or some nonsense that his new landlord had explained when the security had been upgraded a few years back. Hadn’t kept Ligur and Hastur out of his flat, and it didn’t do much to keep Aziraphale out either as he laughed into Crowley’s mouth.

He walked Crowley back into the flat, and the bag of takeaway was gone. His hand was against Crowley’s mark again, his nails pressing hard through the fabric of Crowley’s shirt. Crowley moved one hand from Aziraphale’s lapel to begin to carefully untie Aziraphale’s bowtie. 

It was his favorite, after all, and while Crowley desperately wanted to rip Aziraphale’s clothes from his body, he couldn’t bring himself to damage anything so dear to his angel. 

Aziraphale was the one who broke the kiss, his forehead against Crowley’s jaw. “I am so sorry,” he murmured, voice soft but deep. “I have been thinking of little else but touching you since yesterday--since I saw.” He laughed. “I haven’t asked if this is something you’d like to pursue further. This doesn’t have to be carnal. I would love to share a bath with you.”

Crowley pulled his glasses off and tossed them. It didn’t bother him where they landed, because he’d find them eventually. Or he wouldn’t, and he’d have to take another set of spares from his restored Bentley. It didn’t matter. 

He had to see Aziraphale’s eyes without a lens in the way. He knew his eyes were full-yellow, completely demonic, but Aziraphale never looked away from them. 

“We could do that, if you’d like,” Crowley murmured, and he threaded their fingers together, so he could draw Aziraphale’s hand up, so he could undo Aziraphale’s cufflink with his other hand and then press a kiss against Aziraphale’s exposed wrist. “I’d like that, even.”

Aziraphale sighed, his eyes now focused on where Crowley kept pulling fabric back, to chase the blue veins under his pale skin with his tongue. 

“It’s just... I’ve been in love with you for millenia, angel,” Crowley murmured, and he forced himself to say the words and keep his gaze steady. He wouldn’t hide now. “Marked with it, even. Because I’ve always been yours, sweetheart.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmured, and his smile was beautiful. “I love you, too.”

“I know,” Crowley said, with a smile, because Aziraphale was a bastard and could be cruel, but he wouldn’t lie here, not now. “But I also want you to take me to bed and make me yours.”

Aziraphale’s kiss was gentle, sweet. “Of course, darling. If that’s what you want.”

It’s his own miracle that gets them into the bedroom, their shoes and socks gone, Aziraphale’s jacket and waistcoat placed in Crowley’s empty wardrobe. It was nothing to will his own clothing away, and it just seemed prudent, considering that they were planning on “carnal” activities, as Aziraphale had put it. 

It still seemed strange, to sit against his headboard as naked as he’d ever been in front of a person. He didn’t particularly like having his mark so exposed, as if Hell would suddenly appear and demand he pay for such a thing. That he was half-hard and exposed to the cool air of his flat seemed much less daunting. 

Besides, Aziraphale was staring. 

“I would have done that, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, when he’d recovered from the miracle, sitting on Crowley’s bed in trousers and his pale blue shirt, one wrist already undone. He looked utterly delectable, and Crowley didn’t know whether he wanted to stare or bat Aziraphale’s hands away. “Perhaps I wanted to watch you undress, too.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, smirking at his angel. “I thought you’d seen the show, as you mentioned.” He drew a thumb over the branch of his mark, the one that stretched over his stomach. 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and shrugged out his shirt and stepped out of his trousers, so he stood in Crowley’s sinfully modern flat in his terribly outdated underclothes. It shouldn’t have made desire run hot under Crowley’s skin, but he’d long ago given up on not finding Aziraphale’s antiquated taste in apparel attractive. 

“It’s rather different when it’s actually you at home in the skin, my dear.” He crawled onto the bed, sock garters and all, and drew one finger slowly over Crowley’s mark, as if he meant to memorize the shape of it. 

Crowley bit his lip and shivered, and if he’d thought Aziraphale touching the mark through cloth was overwhelming, it was nothing to Aziraphale’s bare hands against it, with Aziraphale laying across Crowley and pushing him down onto the mattress. Aziraphale’s mouth was at his throat, gentle kisses mixed with soft presses of teeth, and Crowley couldn’t stand it. 

He couldn’t stand the feel of Aziraphale’s clothed chest against his bare skin. He drew his hand along the hem of Aziraphale’s vest, contemplating its removal, one foot sliding over Aziraphale’s ridiculous sock garters, the socks long miracled away. “Aziraphale,” he said, and it wasn’t a whine, a sort of desperate sound that was entirely undignified for a demon to make when his partner had barely begun to touch him.

It was close though. 

Aziraphale chuckled, indulgent, and then he was truly naked, their hips flush against each other and Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s arousal against his hip, warm and hard. Crowley groaned and pushed away from the bed to flip them, so he was pressing Aziraphale to the bed, so he was the one looking down at his angel with love and devotion. 

And so he could be the first to duck his head and trace [the mark along Aziraphale’s skin with his mouth.](https://66.media.tumblr.com/1c71f3724652b07653dbc221fe4e80c9/385405d50a4de56c-ad/s500x750/bbc7be1dd329ba7bb2b5354881137ee0979d8ff5.jpg)

In the low light, Crowley could still see it clearly, could see the mirror of his own mark spread across Aziraphale’s skin. The placement was different, a little skewed so one branch cut through the soft thatch of chest hair on Aziraphale’s body, and Crowley drew his thumb over that line, not stopping until he’d felt Aziraphale’s nipple pebble under his touch. 

And Aziraphale’s sounds were probably just as embarrassing as Crowley’s own, but it was better because he was the one wringing them from his angel. “Feels amazing, doesn’t it?” he murmured, his chin against Aziraphale’s breastbone. 

“Quite,” Aziraphale murmured, and he touched Crowley’s again, scratched at it, and Crowley rutted against Aziraphale, his toes curling. “The descriptions I’ve read pale in comparison.”

Crowley laughed, pushing up to kiss Aziraphale again. “Descriptions you’ve read,” he said, lightly teasing. “Such praise, love.”

Aziraphale’s fingers curled around Crowley’s hip, thumb brushing in wide sweeps. “Hush,” he murmured, and his hand tightened so it felt possessive, so Crowley made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “I daresay some of that reading will help us now, if you truly meant for me to, what was it you said, darling?”

There was a twinkle in Aziraphale’s eyes that Crowley loved, the one he saw before Aziraphale was about to cause the sort of mischief that would make any demon swoon. “You heard me,” he said, mouthing along Aziraphale’s jaw and then capturing his lips again. “Though I suppose I could miracle that along--”

That earned him his hands pressed against the mattress, Aziraphale above him again. “You shall do no such thing, my dear. If I don’t get to undress you, I must insist that we do some things the old fashioned way.” He stole a biting kiss from Crowley, one that was quite firm and insistent and would hear no argument. 

Not that Crowley was inclined to argue, with Aziraphale’s weight pressing him to the mattress as he let go of Crowley’s wrists. Crowley wrapped his legs around Aziraphale for a moment, to hold him close, and he was rewarded with a light smack against his hip, Aziraphale murmuring, “Demon,” against his skin. 

“It would go faster with a miracle,” Crowley murmured, watching Aziraphale as he sat back on the bed on his heels, lubricant in one hand as he looked over Crowley in a way that was more than a little reminiscent of how he looked over the tasting menu at the Ritz or perhaps the scones at their favorite bakery outside of St James’ Park. 

Aziraphale uncapped the lubricant as he pushed Crowley’s legs apart, hands warm and gentle but rather insistent. “I daresay we have eternity for that sort of miracle, my love,” he murmured, fingers dragging slow on the inside of Crowley’s thighs, not quite where he wanted them yet. “But I don’t think you’ll want magic when you’ve got me in this position, at least the first time.”

Crowley meant to quip back, to be a bit snide, but the idea of their positions reversed, of being able to look down at Aziraphale and touch the inside of his soft thighs, to maybe turn him over in bed and push his hips up and open so Crowley could show his angel what it meant to have a partner who was more than a little snake...

Between that and the first press of Aziraphale inside his body, Crowley was surprised he didn’t come then and there. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, because what else was there to say, when Aziraphale was shifting to press kisses along Crowley’s soulmark and moving his finger, then adding another, the pressure more and better and so much different than it had ever been with Crowley’s own fingers. His were longer, yes, but everything about Aziraphale was so much broader, so much better. 

Then Aziraphale nipped lightly at the roots curling over Crowley’s hip and crooked his fingers, and Crowley stopped trying to think so much. He concentrated on the feel of Aziraphale’s mouth, the way he murmured things that were utterly rubbish when Crowley was dressed (“lovely” and “so perfect” seemed to be favorites), and the way Aziraphale’s other hand kept drawing sigils along Crowley’s hip, as if Crowley had forgotten. 

“Aziraphale,” he murmured, because his skin felt like it was sparking from his bones. He drew one leg up, to press a heel into Aziraphale’s back. “Please.”

Aziraphale added another finger instead, staring at Crowley like he was precious. “Let me take care of you, for all the times you’ve been so good to me.”

Crowley bit his lip and kept his leg around Aziraphale. “Next time, angel. Next time you can take your time, but now I need you.” He rolled his hips, aware of how much of a show it was with Aziraphale focused on him. He didn’t care; Aziraphale could know how desperate he was, how much he needed. 

But it worked, got Aziraphale to wipe his hand against terrible expensive sheets. He arranged himself between Crowley’s legs, drawing one up around his hip. He tried to be slow, but Crowley had no patience, wanted to feel Aziraphale inside him and above him, everywhere at once really, and he wasn’t above trying to rock his hips to take Aziraphale deeper, to have more. 

When Aziraphale was fully seated inside him, Crowley felt like he was ready to come out of his skin because it was so much. His mark _sang_ in his skin, and when he touched the mark at Aziraphale’s side, he was sure that both were pulsing in time with one another, in time with the other’s heartbeats. 

It was so much, already making sparks behind his eyes as he panted against Aziraphale’s mouth. Kissing would have required too much coordination, so they merely shared breath as they moved together, each roll of Aziraphale’s hips causing his stomach to brush against Crowley’s prick, and even that barest bit of friction was too much. 

“Embarrassing,” he murmured against Aziraphale’s jaw, the hollow of his throat, and he could feel Aziraphale’s answering chuckle everywhere. 

“Have eternity, dear heart.” And then Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s brow, nosing at the bits of hair that were stuck to his forehead. “I love you,” he murmured again. 

Crowley was lost, curling his legs around Aziraphale as tight as he could, to hold him close as he came, striping their stomachs. He flailed one hand out to bring Aziraphale down again for a proper kiss, claiming with teeth and tongue, because he couldn’t answer Aziraphale in that moment, not even when Aziraphale lost his rhythm and brought their hips together with bruising force, his own climax only moments after Crowley’s.

* * *

Aziraphale did not sleep, but he found that he could watch Crowley sleep for hours. For all his insistence that they not use miracles for intimate acts, he was not so scrupulous in the clean up, miracling them both clean of lubricant and fluids, the sheets completely clean. He hadn’t been surprised that Crowley changed the miracled pyjamas Aziraphale had summoned from cream-shaded tartan cotton to a black silk. 

“I love you, Aziraphale,” he’d slurred, stretched half onto Aziraphale. “But I’m not about to dress like you.”

He’d left the pyjama top unbuttoned though, so Aziraphale could draw his thumb over their shared mark as Crowley slept. Aziraphale thought perhaps he might try his hand at it sometime, maybe in a century when he was done marvelling at the way Crowley’s face went smooth and gentle in sleep. He couldn’t hide behind his bravado and wiles like this, vulnerable in a way that made Aziraphale distinctly uncomfortable because for millenia no one had been here to watch Crowley sleep.

Forget the mark. One look at his serene brow, and he was sure they’d all be calling for Crowley’s destruction.

He stroked Crowley’s hair, ruined from sex and now tousled from sleep, away from Crowley’s face, and he was surprised to see Crowley’s eyes blink open. 

“Think too loud,” Crowley murmured, and he shifted, his finger drawing along the pattern of Aziraphale’s own pyjamas. “Can’t stay if you don’t stop.”

Aziraphale chuckled, because he was rather sure that Crowley had twisted the blankets and top sheet around them in such a way to prevent Aziraphale from leaving the bed entirely. “I will endeavor to stop.”

“Mm, you say that,” Crowley murmured, his head dropping down against Aziraphale’s breast. “Jus’ try close your eyes. Sleep.”

Aziraphale still had his hand against the mark on Crowley’s skin, feeling Crowley’s pulse through the bark of the tree. In quiet moments, he could hear his own heart and know that it beat in time with Crowley. 

And perhaps he wouldn’t learn to sleep, but he could count their echoing pulse for the next six millennia.

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> Thank you to Qualityvanilla for their wonderful art! I am so awed by your talent!!!
> 
> Thank you for reading. I am on [tumblr](http://locketofyourhair.tumblr.com). Comments and Kudos are so appreciated!


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